My husband and I arrived at his parents cottage in the English countryside, ready to meet his family for the first time. As soon as we stepped out of the car, Johns mum burst out onto the doorstep, hands planted on her hips, looking every bit the matron of a bustling English kitchen. She called out, Oh, Johnny! A bit of warning would have been nice And youve certainly not come alone!
Before I knew it, John had scooped me up in his arms and held me close. “Mum, meet my wifeEmily.”
With a flourish of her floral apron, Mrs. Margaret Smith strode towards me, arms outstretched, cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Well, hello there, my dear! she exclaimed, embracing me tightly and planting three hearty kisses on my cheeks, as is her way. She smelled strongly of garlic and freshly-baked breada comforting, homely mix.
She held me so tightly I almost lost my balance, and my head was squashed between her cushiony bosom. After a moment, she stepped back to inspect me from head to toe. Johnny, whered you find such a slip of a girl?
John chuckled and replied, Where do you think, Mum? In town! At the library Is Dad about?
Hes next door with Mrs. Green, having a look at her Aga. Come in, both of you, and mind your shoesI scrubbed the floors this morning.
A few local children gawked at us from the garden. Sammy, run on to Mrs. Browns and tell your granddad his sons here with his new wife!
Alright! shouted a boy, who darted down the lane.
We made our way inside. John took my trendy, well-bargained coat, bought at the charity shop, and hung it on a peg near the old stove. He pressed my cold hands to the warm whitewashed wall, sighing, My darling! Still warm
Soon glasses and cutlery clinked on the scarred kitchen table, and the scent of strong black tea and potatoes filled the air. While Margaret laid out the food, I took in the cosy little houseembroidered curtains with bluebells, handwoven rugs thrown over well-loved stools, and in the corner near the range, a ginger cat dozed contentedly, ignoring us.
We tied the knot last week, Johns voice drifted over to me as I surveyed the room.
To my amazement, the table soon filled with tempting farecold roast beef in the centre, pickled onions and beetroot, homemade bread, and a golden-crusted quiche with leeks and eggs. I was ravenous.
Alright, Mum, thats enough now! This would feed us all for a week, John mumbled, biting into a generous chunk of bread.
Margaret happily thumped down a glistening glass bottle of ale and wiped her hands on her apron. There we aresorted!
Thats how I first met Johns mum.
Mum and son were like two peas in a podboth dark-haired and rosy-cheeked. John was gentle and agreeable, while his mother had a booming voice and a presence that filled the room. I could imagine her commanding an unruly pony or putting out a barn fire without breaking a sweat.
The porch door slammed. In strode a smallish man, trailing a cold gust behind him, easily half the size of Margaret. His blue eyes sparkled mischievously above a trim ginger beard and curls.
Well, blow me down, what have we here! he exclaimed, before pulling John into a hug without bothering to remove his soot-smudged old jumper.
Good to see you, Dad!
Wash your hands before hugging, if you please! Margaret fussed.
He grinned and shook my hand. Lovely to meet you, miss.
Margaret, pour me some stew, would you? he called, clattering in the sink.
We raised our glasses. To you both, welcome!
After a round of hearty eating and drinking, I mustered the courage to ask, Mr. Smith, how come all your sons are named John?
He grinned at me. Simple! My father was a builder, and so was his father, and me tooall Johns in the family. Only Johnny here decided to be a machinist.
Machinists are needed too, Dad! John chimed in.
Mr. Smith, is it hard to build a stove?
That, lass, is an art form! He jabbed the air with a finger. It must warm the home, bake a fine loaf, and draw the smoke just so. Dont mind my buildwe gingers are tough, kissed by the English sun!
He can fix anything, Margaret pitched in.
Tell us a story, Dad.
He stroked his beard, eyes twinkling. Alright, if you fancy. Heres one
One July, we all went out haymakingremember Old Milly, Margaret? Not a cow, but a walking milk bucket. Off we went: women, men, children, and us. Crack of dawn, and were scything away, sweat already pouring off us under a wretched hot sun, horseflies nipping everywhere. That year, wild boar were everywhere in the woods!
Well, midday comes, we’re all knackered. I look about and get a wicked ideamaybe the heat got to me. I tossed down my scythe and shouted, Run for your lives, wild boar! and legged it up a tree. Sure enough, everyone else dropped their tools and scrambled up the trees too.
The job went much quicker after!
Margaret couldnt help herself and gave him a light smack. You ginger rascal!
Dad, tell a real boar story.
Alrightall true, this one. Me and Margaret were newlyweds, hadnt had Johnny yet. I was a keen hunter then, but not after this. Snow had just fallen. I told her, Im off for a bit of shooting. She said, Go on, then. Off I went, rifle in hand, but had no luck. As dusk fell, I finally heard boar nearby, aimed, firedand missed. The biggest boar charged me. I ran and scrambled up a tree without thinking.
The boar dug at the ground below and then, deciding it was no use, settled in with his herd underneath the tree. I spent the whole night up there, clinging to the branches. Good thing it wasnt too cold, or Id have frozen to death.
I was out of my mind worrying about him! Margaret interrupted. At first light, I roused the village men, we called and called, and finally found him. Hauled him home myself, nearly a mile, until he could walk again.
Youre made of strong stuff, love.
Oh, hush Emily, would you like some tea? With a bit of honey and some chamomilemy own.
That would be lovely, thank you.
Margaret poured out fragrant tea into the big old mugs.
John, tell her how you fixed my sister up.
Mr. Smith nearly choked on his tea. Well, Margarets sister sent word she was coming for a holiday. All was well, until over dinner she complained her legs simply wouldnt workhurting something awful.
We said, Have you tried honeybee therapy? She said, Where am I supposed to find bees in London? So I said, Come with me to the hivesIll have you right in no time!
So, trousers up above the knees, and I let a bee loose on each leg.
She thanked me at first, but half an hour later she was cursing the day she met me. Turns out shes allergicher legs swelled up like party balloons and she couldnt walk at all!
Oh, Doctor Dolittle strikes again! Margaret laughed.
How was I to know shed be allergic! Emily, try the honeyno allergies, I hope?
None at all, Mr. Smith.
Thank heaven for that.
We finished our tea and dusk began to fall outside. I felt the days journey weigh on me. Margaret drew the rose-patterned curtains tight.
Johnny, where shall you two sleep?
Mum, can we sleep on the range? What do you say, Emily?
Sounds perfect!
Margaret beamed. Thats the spot, lovethe range your father built himself, brick by brick.
Mr. Smith looked proud, as well he shouldthe range that warms, feeds, and brings the family together, glowing with bright, living flames.
We thanked our hosts and got up from the table. John gave me a gentle boost onto the ranges wide, warm top.
From the shadowy loft above, a scent drifted downyears of fire-hardened brick, dried wildflowers, a hint of lanolin, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread.
John fell asleep quickly, but my mind was too alive to rest.
From the right, I heard rhythmic breathing: Whoosh puff whoosh puff
A brownie! I thought, remembering English fairy tales about house spirits. A house brownie, surely! I remember the rhyme
Brownie dear, brownie bright, we mean you no bother tonight!
In the morning, I discovered the truth: it wasnt a brownie but the sourdough starter Margaret had left to rise in the cosy warmth and completely forgotten about.
Weve been back many times to the welcoming Smiths country hometo hear Mr. Smiths tales, to bask in the old ranges comfort, and to eat Margarets homemade bread.
But that, as they say, is a story for another day.
